


on peach tea and witchcraft

by limeprint



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Getting Together, Hickeys, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Non-Linear Narrative, Witches, ejp raijin are forest witches, sakusa is also a witch, witch komori
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27713321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limeprint/pseuds/limeprint
Summary: When Atsumu first approached Komori Motoya, he hadn’t foreseen any witchery of sorts.
Relationships: Komori Motoya/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	on peach tea and witchcraft

**Author's Note:**

> the atsukomo au i only wrote to birth the witch komori tag. soft content ahead. read at your own risk  
> here's my [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/06tV3JfgxBe1lquYvGTOH2) for this fic if you'd like
> 
> infinite thanks to [chloe](https://twitter.com/bulbaasaur) and [plum](https://twitter.com/plumli_kl) for beta-ing for me i would die for you.  
> also thank you xin for being the only person ever

_古森 (Komori)_

_古 meaning old; 森 meaning forest._

  
  
  
  
  
  


“So,” Atsumu swallows the lump in his throat. “A witch, huh?”

His eyes struggle to take in the wooden walls of the kitchen, partly hidden by a vibrant patchwork of shelves scattered with all kinds of jars and pots and little vases cradling plants of all colours and shapes, so many his head is starting to turn just from looking at them. A prosperous branch of ivy climbs over the fridge, reaching the tall dark ceiling, and on the fireplace — _what kind of college student needs an actual fireplace? —_ rests what Atsumu assumes is a real-life fuming cauldron, filled to the brim with some transparent concoction.

“Yeah,” Komori smiles breezily, long fingers fiddling with the lid of a little jar. Atsumu can make out some kind of dark powder inside it. “Peach tea?”

“I, uhm.” He barely registers his own stutter, head a mess of whirling thoughts. “Sure?”

The suspicious concoction turns out to be water after all. Atsumu thinks he needs to sit down for a bit. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


When Atsumu first approached Komori Motoya, he hadn’t foreseen any witchery of sorts — frankly, he hadn’t even been expecting to see him again. In his defense, there was no way he could’ve known some guy he’d picked up at a campus party would turn out to be his teammate’s cousin, the best fuck of his life, to attend his Academic Writing class, and to practise enchantments in his free time.

In retrospect, though, the hints were all there.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Komori walks around with weird rocks. Atsumu has known since the night he met him.

It was the start of his second year, as well as his first year as starting setter for the Tokyo University volleyball team. They were _good_ , which means people talked about them, knew about them, looked at them, and the first party of the semester was a golden opportunity for the team to bask in the attention of the whole student body.

It was imperative that the whole team showed up, despite Sakusa’s stubborn claims that he wouldn’t — then again Hinata had pulled some strings, and apparently Sakusa had promised to show up if his cousin also came by. It wasn’t easy, with the herd of students in different states of intoxication swaying to too loud EDM, but in the end Atsumu spotted him with Washio Tatsuki — Suna’s roommate and ex Fukurodani middle blocker, if he remembered correctly from Bokuto’s ramblings.

As he made his way out of the crowd, Atsumu stopped dead in his tracks. 

Talking to Washio with a naturally relaxed stance stood the finest guy he’d ever seen. Light brown hair framed bright blue eyes and thick, full eyebrows that fit his face way better than they should. He wore a black leather jacket over an ochre turtleneck, and Atsumu would swear he wasn’t ogling, but those dark jeans hugged his legs so perfectly the greeting almost got caught in his throat. 

“Hey there, Washio-kun,” Atsumu unsheathed his one billion dollar smile, the one Osamu says makes people want to punch him on the nose. “Care to introduce your friend?”

“His friend can introduce himself,” a new voice chirped in a pointed tone that had no business making Atsumu’s nerves tingle like it did. “If one asks nicely, that is.”

“Oh dear, how rude of me,” he mused then, extending an arm to the stranger. He was only distantly aware of Sakusa staring holes into the back of his head. “Miya Atsumu. I play on the varsity team.”

“Komori Motoya. Environmental Science,” Komori’s hand fit nicely into his. “And _Washio-kun_ ’s new roommate.”

Atsumu barely suppressed a smirk. “Hypothetically speaking, just how many things does one get by askin’ nicely?”

Right then, he could swear Komori’s eyes twinkled. “You’d be surprised.”

“Dance with me?” A beat. “Please?”

  
  
  


Cue one Komori Motoya kissing him senseless as they stumbled through the door of Atsumu’s apartment.

“How come I’ve never seen ya around before?” the blonde managed between kisses, hands roaming down Komori’s lower back to grab at his ass, stealing a low whimper out of the other’s lips that had Atsumu’s mind honest-to-god _spin_.

“Kiyoomi doesn’t do campus parties,” Komori breathed out, prompting a quizzical look from Atsumu, his varsity jacket falling to the floor with a soft _thump_. 

“Sakusa Kiyoomi? Varsity team? Doesn’t eat his carrots? Constantly looks like he’s two seconds away from murdering you?” 

_Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t eat his carrots?_

Komori let him tug him towards the end of the corridor and across his bedroom door without bothering to close it behind them. “What business does Mr. Sunshine have with Omi-kun?” 

“We’re cousins,” the brunette snorted cutely at the nicknames, shameless fingers making their way under Atsumu’s thin white t-shirt. _Sakusa. Cousins._ A few missing puzzle pieces fit into place somewhere in Atsumu’s brain. “We usually throw private parties at his sister’s.”

“And I wasn’t invited? I am appalled.”

“Kiyoomi doesn’t appreciate me mingling with his teammates,” Komori drags the cloth up Atsumu’s stomach as he guides his arms out of the t-shirt. “Says we’ll team up to make his life a nightmare.” The devilish grin on his puffy lips had Atsumu’s pants growing tighter by the second, forcing him to swallow down what would’ve undoubtedly been a pitiful groan, because, _dude, this guy was going to drive him nuts_. 

“That’s a pity, ‘cause I have a lotta more mingling in mind for the evening,” he breathed out instead, and if it came out a little strangled, his lips made sure Komori wouldn’t have the chance to comment on it. Komori’s mouth opened up for him at once, warm and pliable against his, and he let Atsumu push him back on the king-sized bed with nothing more than a mellow whimper, the blonde falling on top of him a few seconds later. 

Komori’s teeth latched on his collarbone at record speed, drawing a surprised whine out of his lips, and _god_ , Atsumu needed those pants gone immediately. 

He grasped the hem of Komori’s turtleneck first, cottony fabric sliding over pretty, smooth skin before getting caught with something at the height of his neck. A few seconds of struggling later, the item finally came off Komori’s head, the little object tumbling back onto his chest and drawing the blonde’s instant attention.

“What’s this?” Transfixed, Atsumu reached out to brush his knuckles against the little crystal, dark coppery colour, black lace wrapped around one of his extremities to keep it dangling from the brunette’s neck. It was cold to the touch.  
  


“Jasper,” his voice was careful as he spoke, a warm, gentle tingle, but the hungry stare roaming down his naked torso had Atsumu shiver nonetheless. “Elemental Earth stone, it’s meant to have a grounding effect.”

As Komori’s hips lifted from the mattress to grind decisively against his crotch, he found he didn’t really have the time to ponder on whether he found it weird, and resorted to wrapping his tongue around the cold stone instead. Komori’s eyes followed the movement with razor-sharp focus, tongue lapping at his lower lip, and Atsumu didn’t have much to think about after that, grounding effect be damned.

  
  
  


To Atsumu’s dismay, Komori insisted he had to rush out the morning after.

_“Kiyoomi will kill me if I’m late to the family brunch.”_

_A groan. “Fuck Omi-kun. Please stay?”_

_A delighted grin. “I'll tell him you say hi.”_

Atsumu was hit by the impression that he was being played, but after finding the crumpled piece of paper lying on his bedside table, pinned down by a tiny smooth rock of a rusty orange hue, he found that maybe he didn’t mind.

_Carnelian stone. Supposed to be motivating. Reminded me of you. :)_

And if that wasn’t enough to have Atsumu chuckling like the self-satisfied jerk he was, the phone number scribbled messily right under it sure did the job.

  
  
  
  
  
  


That was the first of a fruitful series of hook-ups which Atsumu doesn’t exactly have an explanation for. It’s not like he needs one, really. Komori’s company is naturally pleasant, sex is good, conversation flows easy, and neither of them ever felt the need to ask for more from their vague predicament, so he can’t fathom how it all came down to _this_ , Atsumu seated in Komori’s cozy kitchen, his host looking impossibly soft as he brews infusions and entrusts him with what is probably his most well-kept secret.

“So, how does this work?” Atsumu attempts when he feels like his voice isn’t going to give out. “Have ya always been like this? Or did ya, I dunno know, get… turned?”

That sends Komori into a fit of cackles, teapot momentarily forgotten on the counter. “That’s vampires, ‘Tsumu,” he puffs once he eventually catches his breath. “I belong to an esteemed lineage of forest witches, actually.”

“So like, a family thing?”

The realization brings the gears in Atsumu’s brain to a halt. 

“Yer tellin’ me…”

“Yeah,” Komori’s smile turns cheeky. “Kiyoomi.” 

“Oh my _god_.”

“Greenery stimulates our inner energy. The Sakusas left the woods when he was a kid, so he really doesn’t practise magic anymore, but he’s still got witch blood,” Even in the midst of finding out one of his teammates is fully capable of — and most likely (definitely) inclined to — hexing the shit out of him, Atsumu doesn’t miss the hint of nostalgia knitted into the other’s ever-cheerful tone. “We used to practise our first spells together when we were four. ”

“Why didja leave the forest then?”

“Witchcraft isn’t exactly a successful field nowadays,” a wistful sigh, eyes trained on the infuser in his grip, careful thumb fixing the few tea leaves threatening to spill out before dipping it into the fuming water. (What wouldn’t Atsumu do to be privy to the devoted touch of those hands right now.) “Mom wanted me to get an actual degree, so I’ve been staying at my aunt’s in Tokyo since I was fifteen.”

He tries to imagine what it must feel like, to leave your home behind at the age of fifteen. Leaving his had been traumatic, and he’d been eighteen already. He still misses his brother sometimes, even if Atsumu had been the one who insisted on getting separate apartments in the first place, and he’d rather eat his fist than admit it aloud.

“Sakusa moved out in his first year, but I didn’t wanna burden mom with the full cost of rent, you know? So I got a part-time job for a year, saved up a bit,” he chuckles quietly, and Atsumu has questions, but he figures he’d rather witness this Komori in silence, fondness radiating off him like unfiltered sunshine, and he’s hit by the fact that the brunette has never mentioned his mother before.

“Before the start of the new semester mom helped me find a place. She insisted that I’d move in with other witches, —” 

Atsumu’s battered brain turns to static sound. 

“— says she doesn’t want me to lose contact with my magical core.” 

Moving in. With other witches.

… Other witches?

_Other_ witches.

“Other witc — wait,” _Washio-kun?_ No, what in the living shit — “ _Sunarin?_ ”

Komori’s infamous, eerie grin is about all the confirmation he needs.

Holy _shit_ , Atsumu is going to flip out. 

“I’ve known that motherfucker since _high school_!”

“Rin can be pretty… secretive?”

He can feel every drop of his blood boil in his veins. Suna’s supposed to be one of his best friends, _for fuck’s sake_ , and he can’t believe he’s been keeping this from him all this time, but what’s even more unnerving is that he should’ve _known_. 

There is simply nothing about that guy that’s _not_ fishy. Like, he’s seen him have an actual conversation with a crocodile at the zoo before, and he distinctly remembers Aran claiming there was no way he wasn’t some sort of cryptid. And if even Aran had felt the need to point it out with the same perturbed glare he reserved for when he and Osamu discussed who had the wackiest feet between the two, it must be pretty freaking serious. If he thinks about it, it’s kinda fucked up that he’s never been to Suna’s apartment before, but Suna’s always staying at Osamu’s anyway — _wait. Does Osamu know about this?_ They’re going to have a long, atrocious talk once he gets home.

Komori’s eyes are sharp, the familiar amused glint leaving Atsumu enticed, and he gulps.

_If_ he gets home.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Four months into this precarious arrangement of theirs, Komori had never invited him over before last night.

Well, he wouldn’t call that evidence of any shady magical business, but he should’ve known it was suspicious, at least.

Not that Atsumu ever minded much; hanging out at Komori’s would have entailed seeing Suna way longer than Atsumu’s doctor’s prescription advises, not to mention that his ex middle blocker wouldn’t let him live it down if he knew just how many times he booty-called Komori in the span of a month. 

Besides, it’s not like it bothers him to have Komori over.

In fact, it seems to bother Osamu more. Atsumu tries not to let it get to him, but he finds himself mulling over it sometimes against his better judgement. 

One of those times, he remembers, he’d forgotten to close the blinds properly, and the moonlight shone brightly into the room, keeping him awake. He’d thought getting his own one-room apartment would at least result in less nagging from his stupid brother, but there he was again, his twin’s grating voice stuck in his head at three in the fucking morning.

  
  


_“He’s at yours like, every heckin’ day.”_ _  
  
_

_“Just ‘cause he was there when ya came over this morning -”_

_“It’s the third time it happens, and that’s three times too much of my eyes getting scarred by yer boyfriend’s naked ass.”_

  
  


“‘Tsumu,” croaked a sleepy mouth, breath hot against the shell of Atsumu’s ear.

  
  


_“He’s not my boyfriend.”_

_“Then why does he stay over? Ain’t fuckbuddies meant to fuck ya and leave?”_

  
  


Well, yeah, Komori got cuddly after sex, and then his eyes always drooped close before he could stop it, and maybe he ended up staying the night more often than not. So what? Atsumu got cold easily, and he was not one to turn down a warm body. Sue him. 

“Can’t sleep again?” Komori murmured then, an awfully familiar tilt to his drowsy voice, arm squeezing tighter at Atsumu’s waist.

The blonde just hummed, low and maybe just a tiny bit whiny. Komori’s soft hair tickled his shoulder, forcing a sigh out of him. The brunette’s hand travelled up Atsumu’s side, fingers brushing against his arm and eventually slipping into his hair, tugging gently. 

His nose nudged against the nape of Atsumu’s neck, and he could almost feel the moment the other’s lips curved into an easy grin.

“Isn’t it time for a re-dye?”

“Yeah,” was Atsumu’s tired sigh after a moment of consideration, and Komori was out of bed in a second, hogging all the blankets at once, draped around his naked body like a huge beige cocoon. Atsumu couldn’t stifle a yelp at the brutality of the sudden exposure to the cold, swiftly cut off by Komori throwing the first sweater he found laying on the desk chair at his face — Atsumu wasn’t even sure it was his sweater. 

“Asshole,” Atsumu grunted as he slipped the fabric down his shivering chest, but still let Komori drag him to his cramped bathroom, old yellow lightning blinding him for a second before he found himself being manhandled to sit on a little stool in front of the sink. 

He was left with observing Komori going through his shelves like they were his own, finding the bottle of blonde dye in no time, and it shouldn’t make his chest as warm as it did when fingers started carding through his hair, and he’d rather blame it all on the blankets, that Komori had discarded and carefully wrapped around Atsumu’s shoulders at some point.

Between the pacifying sound of the running water, the accumulated fatigue from volleyball practice, and Komori’s low whispers that he couldn’t seem to make out, slowly but surely, he allowed himself to surrender to the mellow tug of sleep.

Atsumu _really_ didn’t mind Komori staying over after all.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Now Atsumu is sitting in Komori’s living room, and he isn’t _ready_.

He hadn’t been able to discern much of the house when they’d stumbled in last night, the two of them too busy sucking face to spare a glance to their surroundings.

Yet there it is, Komori’s house, laid bare in front of him, and he’s seen Komori naked a frankly ridiculous amount of times by now but nothing compares to the overwhelming feeling of seeing him all at once, in the cupboards, in the perfectly green aloe in the corner of the room, in the easiness of the way he leans against the counter, and Atsumu doesn’t need to look to know that his right hand is tapping casually against the surface behind him, because he has seen him do that a thousand and more times to _Atsumu_ ’s counter. To Atsumu’s table. To Atsumu’s thigh. 

He wraps his palms around his mug. It’s still scorching hot, but he’s in desperate need for something to do with his hands. He moves to settle on the sofa, careful not to spill any liquid on the floor, eyes trailed on the tea to keep it balanced — and that’s when he takes in the words printed on the mug, a snort leaving his lips at once. 

_“Son of a witch_?” he reads, teasing tone dripping out of him. 

Komori’s grin is wolfish. “That’s Rin’s,” he announces proudly, “I got us matching mugs, ‘cause I’m a nice roommate like that. Mine’s prettier, though.” He extends his arm expectantly, Atsumu’s eyes squinting to make out the words on the purple ceramic, and it says _Witches before bitches_ , and it’s the single lamest thing he’s ever read, and he still snorts.

“Are all witches lame as fuck, or is it just ya lot?”

“I got Tatsuki one too. It says _Hexy bitch_. He refuses to use it in front of guests.”

He can’t help but think that Komori looks sort of mesmerizing like this — dark green sweater hugging a chest Atsumu could trace by memory alone, gentle laughter shaking his shoulders with mirth, and he finds himself cackling in return.

Today Atsumu learns, among other, bigger things, that there is something to knowing. To knowing the nuances of Komori’s chuckles, but being unfamiliar with his mother’s name. To recognizing the subtle habits of Komori’s fingertips, but not the halo of the sun that crowns him from the window behind him.

All this time, he’s only known Komori through his window, he’s only had him against his counter. Same boy, different sun. Same boy, different setting — or maybe the setting makes a different boy, or maybe the setting doesn’t really matter, and Atsumu doesn’t really know the boy in the first place, and it’s both a fear and a craving.

_Tell me more. Show me everything. I’ll ask nicely._

And that’s when he sees it.

Right there, on the base of his neck, where Atsumu vaguely remembers sucking a little too enthusiastically the night before, a darkening mark, red and shapeless and unmistakable.

  
  
  
  
  
  


The thing is, Komori’s hickeys simply disappear.

It took Atsumu about a month and a half to notice something was off.

The concern didn’t even cross his mind at first. Komori liked to wear turtlenecks, so he didn’t exactly have any reason to spy at his marks. And even when his neck was exposed, he just thought maybe Komori was civil enough to cover them up with make-up — for which Atsumu didn’t even bother, really, but who was he to judge Komori’s wishes?

Then a couple of weeks passed, and their hook-ups grew exponentially more frequent, and after getting acquainted enough with Komori’s bare skin it became strikingly clear that the bruises he willingly let Atsumu bite all over his body simply vanished in the insignificant span of two days. 

It’s not that it bothered him per se; he was no hormonal teenager hung up on leaving marks anymore. 

It’s just that it went against everything Atsumu knew about human nature.

“‘Mori,” Atsumu panted slightly against Komori’s chest, the other’s fingers tugging on his hair.

Komori whined softly as Atsumu’s fingers traced the hem of his sweatpants, voice breathy against his ear. “Yeah?” 

“Are ya goin’ to Bokkun’s party tomorrow?”

“Sure?”

“Cool,” Atsumu’s lips travelled up to the juncture where Komori’s neck met his collarbone. “Gotta make ya look all pretty, then,” he whispered against skin before sucking harshly, thoroughly enough that if the result didn’t last, he might as well be delusional.

  
  
  


As it turned out, Atsumu was delusional.

Because there he was, Komori Motoya, standing on the doorway of Bokuto’s apartment in a black v-neck that nicely showcased his perfectly spotless collarbones.

He knew he’d been gaping, because Sakusa stared at him weird before walking down the hallway, but then again, Sakusa always stared at him weird.

He wanted to say something so bad. “Komori-kun,” he started, voice as steady as he could muster, grabbing his harm to prevent him from following his cousin towards the backyard where the party was just getting started.

“Motoya.”

Atsumu paused. “Huh?”

He lowered his gaze to meet Komori's eyes. It was a mistake. 

Now that he was looking closer, he could spot the glitter lining Komori’s lids, bright and ethereal even in the dark of the hallway, and he could swear he had never looked so pretty. “You can call me Motoya, you know,” pretty lips wrapped around the words almost mockingly. “You’ve had your dick up my ass a fair amount of times. I think we’re intimate enough for that.”

_Moto —_ no, _Komori,_ he cut himself off, because he was already struggling with pushing the syllables out of his uncooperative mouth, and he wasn’t remotely ready for the implications of his recently acquainted _friend_ becoming _Motoya_ to the intimate recesses of his scattered brain. 

“Motoya-kun,” he pulled off in one shaky breath, and he could feel himself get sidetracked, but the issue already didn’t seem so important anymore.

“You were saying?”

After all, it would be okay, anyway — Atsumu was content just like that. It’s not like he needed Komori to be sporting lovebites, it’s not like he needed answers, it’s not like Atsumu was anything to him to be asking about his skincare routine or whatever the fuck. 

The thing about Atsumu was that he’d never been capable of _just a bit_ . He either cared, or didn’t care at all — and this time, the decision had been taken in the moment when he first kissed him and thought, _to love this man is to give him everything_. (And Atsumu may have everything to give, but he didn’t know if he could afford it yet.)

So he wouldn’t ask. 

“First name basis. Aren’t ya spoilin’ me too much, Toya-kun?” The name rolled off his tongue comfortably this time around.

“You spoil me too,” Komori’s smile was bright, and Atsumu followed him naturally toward the kitchen, falling back to their easy banter in no time.

“I do not.”

“You wake up early with me.”

“I’m an early riser too.” 

“And you make me pancakes while I do my morning yoga.” 

His stomach churned a little at the thought. 

“Seein’ ya bend like that at fucks’ o’clock in the mornin’ makes a man hungry.” 

“You always answer my 2am texts.”

“Only to tell ya to go the fuck to sleep.”

“ _And_ you take everything I hit you with, and you never back down, no matter how much I shake you around like a little snow globe.”

_What even._

“That’s — the single weirdest thing ye’ve ever said to me.”

A pause, then a giggle.

“There're weirder things I could be telling you.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Komori notices him staring.

“What?”

“Yer neck,” Atsumu mumbles, weak.

“Oh,” Komori tilts his head to take a glimpse at the ticket, and it’s obvious that he’s caught up to Atsumu’s train of thought, because his eyes widen and he pushes himself off the counter, hesitantly. “Wanna see?”

He isn’t entirely sure what he’s being asked, but nods anyway, watching as the other grabs a black jar from the lower shelf ( _feverfew + agrimony_ , he can make out on the yellowing label) and a mortar from the cupboard above him. His hands work confidently, practiced, as they make some kind of plant into a mush, Atsumu following the movements in reverent silence.

Then he dips his index into the substance, and lays it slowly all over the mark, lips disclosed to curl around words the blonde doesn’t catch and doesn’t understand. The whisperings are comforting, soothing to the ear. (Atsumu doesn’t wish it was his finger tracing purpling skin, careful and soft, feeling the warmth under his fingertip. He doesn’t.) 

“Forest witches have an affinity with healing,” Komori grins then, a little apologetic, almost like he’s suddenly sorry for dumping so much _new_ on him in the span of one lazy Saturday morning.

Atsumu drinks it all in, the everything new this Motoya is.

“Well, ya could’ve healed mines too. Remember that time I went to practice with this huge hickey on my throat, which was yer fault by the way, and Bokkun wouldn’t stop botherin’ me about it -”

“But that would be such a shame,” the brunette cuts him off with a sorrowful little sigh, and the look he gives him has Atsumu’s words die in his throat. “They look gorgeous on you.”

And _god_ , Atsumu feels like he’s going to die, he’s dying, he’s _dead_ , and he kind of hates that this is all it takes for his ears to bloom a crimson red, and for the tension that has been clinging to him since the start of this conversation to slip off his back at once. 

He wonders if it’s obvious to anyone else, the way Komori makes everything easier. His mere presence is pacifying, reassuring, and one can see it, in the way Sakusa’s fingers stop fidgeting whenever Komori comes into his line of vision, the way Washio’s tight smile softens in the edges when he enters the room, how even Suna’s shoulders relax a bit whenever the brunette elbows him in the gut, snarky retorts coming easier off his tongue. Komori approaches people like he has something they’re missing. Maybe Atsumu had looked like that too, that first night he met him — unaware of what he was missing, until Komori Motoya showed up and gave it to him.

So really, Atsumu thinks he can’t be blamed for wanting to bask in Komori’s light a little more. 

_An affinity with healing_ , he ponders in the midst of his flustered thoughts — well, that’s kind of fitting, isn’t it? Komori has always had this propensity to tending, to giving. He thinks of fingers carding through wet hair, of lips brushing against bruises, of the taste of fruit on his tongue.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Komori feeds him potions sometimes.

Okay, maybe _potions_ is too much, but his friend who’s been supplying him with smoothies periodically just turned out to be a witch, so he’s allowed to overreact a bit, thank you very much. 

It happens whenever Atsumu inevitably ends up pulling all-nighters, cramming for midterms as the natural aftermath of too many days spent practicing jump serves instead of hunching over books. 

Like that one time his Mass communication course was kicking his ass, and he woke up the morning of the exam with a headache and eye bags so big he almost had to give up his more-handsome-twin title.

Maybe it was the three hours of sleep, but as he brushed his teeth he found himself staring at the three colourful vases Komori had convinced him to keep on the windowsill of his already cramped bathroom.

_Please, Suna says I have too many at home_ , and _Kiyoomi won’t take them ‘cause he hates happiness and all that is good and nice_ , and _I don’t have anyone else to ask,_ and _I’ll take care of them, you won’t have to do anything_. 

All this while elegantly skirting around the elephant in the room, the one clinging to Atsumu’s mind — _I’m here all the time anyway_.

Google, what does it mean when the cute guy you sleep with on a (bi)weekly basis leaves his cherished succulents at your place?

Atsumu desperately wanted to laugh at himself. He suddenly understood how people felt about toothbrushes. He wondered if that was somehow proportional to fretting over your friend-with-benefits’ freaking _cacti_. (Or over the fact that Komori didn’t seem to be seeing anyone but him.)

He didn’t have the time to laugh at himself, though, so he hurried out instead and jogged half the way to the Social Sciences building, where Komori greeted him with a _Good morning_ that was too cheery for Atsumu’s sleep-deprived state and shoved a bottle into his hands. 

“Hey, gremlin,” Atsumu croaked before the brunette could run off to his own classroom.

Komori stopped with a questioning hum, turning just quickly enough to catch the chocolate snack Atsumu had grabbed for him before rushing out. His smile was so blinding Atsumu had to run off instead.

Akaashi caught up to him just a few seconds later as he approached the stairs to the first floor. “It’s nice of your boyfriend to bring you breakfast,” was his casual greeting. 

It took a few seconds and a lot of effort from his overworked brain cells for the words to sink in.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he squawked so rapidly his tongue tripped over the words.

“Oh?” Akaashi surpassed him on the stairwell with an expression that screamed _I am not convinced in the slightest, but I’ll let it pass because I don’t really care_. “Sorry for assuming, then.”

Atsumu resolved to suppress the feeling in his chest as he gulped down a long drag of orange shake, hoping to hide his quickly reddening face before he could reach the exam room.

And seriously, was no one gonna tell him food is a love language to kids these days?

He eventually sank into a random chair, easily slipping into the familiar adrenaline-induced focus that took over him during assessments. Just as the professor entered the room, he slipped a hand in the front pocket of his slacks, almost out of habit, fingers curling around a little stone he’d become familiar with. _Carnelian_ , he remembered absently. _It’s supposed to be motivating_.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Atsumu’s widening eyes immediately fall on the half-empty mug in his hands. 

“Yer drinks.”

“I haven’t been spiking your food with magic or anything!” Komori almost shrieks, a rare display of distress that would probably be fascinating, if Atsumu hadn’t been in the middle of a life-changing realization. “My smoothies are natural. They’re just good ‘cause I grow my ingredients,” Atsumu raises his eyes just enough to spot an obvious pout on the other’s plump lips. _Cute_ , suggest his treacherous, whipped thoughts. “We have an orchard in the back.”

Atsumu tries very hard to wipe the image of Suna wielding a shovel off his mind, and just assumes Washio and Komori do all the work back there.

If he really thinks about it, he struggles to believe Komori would ever give him anything to enhance his scholastic performance anyway, and he’s very confident of his own ability to pass exams by himself, thank you very much, but there’s a different kind of warmth hiking up his chest. He tries to formulate his thoughts in a way that’s not entirely mortifying.

“You actually _made_ the smoothies.”

Okay, so, maybe Atsumu has an issue with home-made food, ‘cause maybe he associates it with the meals his grandma used to pack for him and ‘Samu back in kindergarten, before old age made her hands too shaky to hold a fork. And maybe he cried in the locker room when his high school team captain put together a whole food package for him during his second year. And maybe he cries a bit after Osamu occasionally comes over in the morning just to leave a couple dishes in the fridge ‘cause he’s worried he’s not eating properly, and maybe he wants to cry right now because his fuckbuddy-slash-friend has been investing his time in making comforting smoothies for him with his crafty gentle hands, and maybe Suna isn’t exactly wrong when he says Atsumu is emotionally compromised.

“Which part of the recycled glass bottles looked store-bought to you?”

“There were _ribbons_ around the neck of the bottles. I thought ya got ‘em at some fancy environmentally friendly Bio store or somethin’!”

“I guess I should be flattered you think my smoothies are that good.” The little frown on Komori’s forehead smooths at once, smirk growing fond on his lips before he plops down on the sofa next to him, and Atsumu himself feels relieved by the motion. 

“So,” he finally settles the mug on the coffee table, shooting a tentative grin, a final attempt at getting a grip on his wavering emotions. “Why’re ya comin’ clean now? Are ya goin’ to eat me? Do witches still cook children for dinner?”

“I’m afraid you’re not a child anymore, ‘Tsumu,” half-lidded blue eyes follow him attentively, sending a shiver up his spine. “But if you want me to eat you, all you have to do is ask.”

(And Atsumu doesn’t doubt it for a second. He doesn’t doubt that Komori Motoya is perfectly capable of eating him whole, and that he wouldn’t mind it one bit.)

“Ya didn’t answer the question, Toya-kun,” Atsumu swallows thickly. “Why are ya tellin’ _me_?”

“‘Cause I like your company,” Komori doesn’t break a sweat. “In fact, I like your face too. And I like how you look, wiggling in my sheets or having tea on my sofa like you belong there. I like you,” he smiles with ease, like he isn’t restricting his grasp onto Atsumu’s careless heart with every word he speaks. A careful hand slides across the sofa cushion, pinky brushing just slightly against Atsumu’s as he leans a little closer. His stomach churns with expectation, like he hasn’t kissed Komori a thousand times already, like he hasn’t dreamt of these lips a billion times more, because he has long since learned that he can never get enough. Komori’s voice drops to a whisper. “And I’d like to be honest with you, so you can like me too.”

And he suddenly feels so stupid, for thinking he doesn’t know Komori — well, maybe not all of him, not yet, but it’s okay. He looks at him now, all typical Komori Motoya, intense and glowing and comforting all at once, stealing the words out of his mouth every single time.

Then he thinks of the new Komori, all peach tea and witchcraft, and he thinks he could kiss him. He thinks he could love him.

“Ya need to stop leavin’ me speechless, Toya-kun,” he mumbles, leaning further to hover the other’s lips.

He thinks he could care, and not just a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> so here we are,, the self-indulgence is strong in this one, but i hope someone else can also find comfort in my fond ramblings over komori via atsumu's reverent pov.  
> thank you for bearing with me if you've come this far!! comments/kudos are greatly appreciated and feel free to find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kuroy4ku/status/1334276843906732032?s=20) if you'd like to be friends or scream about komori motoya


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